The men and women huddled around the kitchen table clutching mugs of coffee and tea. They hunched forward and talked nervously in muffled whispers, afraid hostile ears lurked nearby.
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Wheel of Fortune. Every day. Every damn day that’s what she watches. It’s like she has to watch it or else she’s miserable and we can’t watch anything else. If I want to watch something else, she, like, freaks out and says that I have my own television in my room. She knows how small that TV is and she wouldn’t watch it if she was forced to either.
“Did you know this song is about heroin?” My friend Chris asked.
“Huh?” I said as I approached a stop sign.
We just left a party where my gay friend made out with a girl for the first time and I got vomited on.
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“I’ve got this bad habit.” I’m twisting the cold wine-glass stem around in circles, leaving marks on the tablecloth. “I can never finish sucking the mint. You know? I always crush it in my teeth.”
The man looks at me through wire-rimmed glasses, a bit of goo in the corner of his brown eye.
I signed up with a temp agency because contributor copies won’t pay the bills. At the time, I was already moonlighting as a scarecrow, but my wife was sick of shucking corn and boiling water, so I took a job throwing fireballs at the sun. The gig didn’t last long, just a few weeks and then a few more hours after those few weeks.
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While we embraced I wished that we had somehow missed the news alert on our phones revealing to us that nuclear war had broken out.
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“First describe the eye; then show how the twinkling of a star is really in the eye and why one star should twinkle more than another, and how the rays from the stars originate in the eye.” The eye is a shelled, uncooked egg in a bowl of bone. It slops and sighs and rues its lack of development. Even in its most sanguine moments it lacks the verve of a muscle.
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